Shadowfire
by Agoramancer
Summary: Rholdakh wanted to be a shaman or a mage, but was chosen to be a priest. Maliata, on the other hand, wanted to be a rogue... Now they must both find their places within Thrall's Horde. Rated M for violence and suggestive themes in later chapters.
1. Prologue: Him Who Take Fire

_Him who take fire burn himself_

_Him who take light blind himself_

_Him who take ice freeze himself_

_Him who take life kill himself_

_Him who take shadow free himself_

_--Troll Proverb_


	2. Chapter One: The Masters Are Coming

_Author's Note & Standard Disclaimer: Warcraft and related intellectual property are, quite naturally, owned by Blizzard Entertainment. I am not them._   
_I've never posted anything here before, so you'll have to bear with me. Criticism of any kind, including glaring lore errors I may have made, greatly appreciated._

* * *

The masters were coming!

It was a day of excitement in the village of Shadowprey- excitement tempered with sadness, perhaps, on the part of the elder women, sadness that tended to find its expression in a harsh snap and a cuff around the ears, but excitement nonetheless. The old troll on the wharf was prone to harsh laughter if anyone asked about it, and the Wind Master was calmly making preparations at the end of the pier... The masters were coming!

It had been only a year since the end of the Third War, since the trolls had followed their Warchief to this new land, and had spread out- the village of Shadowprey, the Jagged Spear on the coast, had been home to many trolls since that day. Some of them had been deemed too young to fight, and wished to join the Horde now in whatever capacity they might serve...

The masters were coming! ...and there, running along the rocky clifftops of the coast, some forty feet above the water, were two trolls, male and female, sprinting towards the village from the north...

Rholdakh's eyes positively twinkled with malevolent glee as he raced Maliata across the rocks. "Last one to the village be a pinkskin humon!"  
She growled something that was probably a vile curse at him. "You really know how to flatter a lady, eh?"

Rholdakh's reply was lost in a yelp as the rock he was leaping off went out from under him, tumbling him sideways. He had time for a screech before he was lost in an almighty spray of seawater. He came up spluttering. Maliata, discerning that he was not in any immediate danger, gave vent to a hoot of laughter. "You gonna look mighty funny drippin' on de master's robes, Rhol!"  
Rholdakh glared back and threw himself into a vigorous breast-stroke, striking out for the pier as fast as he could in waterlogged clothing. "At least I won't be a pinkskin humon!"  
Maliata's screech of rage echoed across the cliff as she realized the other troll had a good fifty-foot lead on her.

The masters were coming!

The first to arrive were the warriors, a delegation from dusty Orgrimmar, two sturdy orcs overshadowed by a towering Tauren. Their mounts, three swift wolves, galloped along the main road, defying any wildlife, any bandit, any centaur to attack them, their armor gleaming in the sunlight almost as much as the massive weapons they bore. They were an impressive sight, and several of the stronger trolls got an immediate gleam in their eyes.

Then were the mages, a flash and a bang foretelling their arrival as a doorway opened in the air. Beyond it could be seen the city of Orgrimmar, and the mages simply stepped through. With a pop, the view of the city, its sound and its dusty smell, were all cut off.

Next came the hunters, an orc and a troll, one bearing a gun, the other a bow; they came running over the mountains with no mount at all, an owl flapping behind the one and a majestic tiger keeping pace with the other. One troll, who had a quiver at his hip, watched appraisingly and with careful interest, unconciously mimicking the movements of the pair.

Maliata arrived, skidding to a stop amongst the small group of hopeful young trolls queued up in the wish to be Chosen by a master. She looked around, but didn't see Rholdakh- that would show _him_ who was the pinkskin humon.

There was a soft, sibilant hiss, like the wind over rocks, like water poured on hot coals, and a shaman simply _stepped_ into the village from thin air. Immediately the excitement and frenzy calmed slightly, the wise old Tauren's influence rolling out over the crowd like a blanket. A troll in the front row stared at this evidence of power with wide-eyed shock.

Maliata heard a squawk from one of the wind riders, looked around- the Rider Master was calming one of the beasts... but she'd swear the beast itself hadn't been there thirty seconds ago. She caught a slight movement from the corner of her eye and, looking carefully, saw the indistinct form of an orc in dark leathers. He smiled at her from beneath a cowl, held a finger to his lips, then flashed the sunlight into her eyes off his dagger... by the time she could see again, the Rogue master was standing arrayed with the others opposite the hopeful trolls. She resolved right then and there that she would be equally good at misdirection someday, no matter what she was chosen for... where was Rholdakh, anyway? They were about to start!

Rholdakh looked up at the edge of the pier and cursed quietly under his breath. It was a good three feet above the surface of the water, and as such well out of his reach. He tried, for the third time, to scale the post and, for the third time, slid down as fast as he could scramble up, achieving precisely nothing. He needed to get up and sneak along the dock. He knew he was at least good enough at sneaking that he could make it to his hut, a change of dry clothes, without anyone noticing him, and be back in time for-

"What are you doing down there, troll?" The voice cut through his thoughts like a naga through the waves. "Are you so weak, that you will not stand to be Chosen?" The voice was harsh, dry, like something long-dead.

Rholdakh looked up, and the reason for this became apparent to him. The owner of the voice was long-dead as well, a Forsaken, a human woman in golden-white robes, with unnaturally pale flesh and eyes that glowed a faint yellow, a ragged discontinuity visible at stomach level where her robes appeared to sag, as though covering a hole that should have been- _that had been-_ fatal. Her companion, a troll in black robes, looked on with some interest. It took Rholdakh almost four full seconds to realize that they were both standing, without apparently noticing it, in thin air a foot above the water's surface.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Is he mute, J'kala?"  
The troll shook his head. "No, mon, he be just a little surprised, I wager. Go ahead; I'll help him out."  
The undead woman stepped easily onto the pier and strode towards the village as the troll knelt- in the air!- and extended a hand downwards. "Grab on, mon. Can't have you be missin' this day."  
Rholdakh mutely took the hand and allowed himself to be hauled out of the water and placed, dripping, on the dock. "Thanks, mastah. I'll just be gettin' some dry clothes-"  
The other troll shook his head. "No time, mon. Take this." He handed the young troll a small ribbon. "A bit of incidental magic I had an enchanta do for me one time. Just keep it near ya."

The ribbon was of black silk, with gold running down the center in an intricate pattern. It felt somehow sleeker than even silk should, somehow warm- Rholdakh noticed that his clothing was dry. "My clothes-" he started, then snapped his mouth shut at the priest's grin. "Thanks, mon."

The older troll winked at him and gestured for Rholdakh to lead the way into the center of the village. As they arrived, the Tauren shaman cleared his throat impressively. The elder troll moved to stand with the other masters and Rholdakh slipped into the group of trolls waiting to be Chosen.

Maliata nudged him in the ribs. "Pinkskin," she whispered under her beath.

"Quiet, mon, they be startin'!"


	3. Chapter Two: We Don't All Get Goodbyes

_Author's Note & Standard Disclaimer: Warcraft and related intellectual property are, quite naturally, owned by Blizzard Entertainment. I am not them._

* * *

The Tauren shaman reared back and slammed a great two-handed mace into the ground, the impact causing a thud that echoed among the village's huts. For a moment, even the seabirds stopped calling; the only sound was that of the waves, gently lapping the shore. The Tauren spoke. "By the grace of the elements stand we here today. For the strength of the Horde, we will choose those who are to follow us, as we are chosen by them. Trolls of Shadowprey village, Bindings of the Jagged Spear, the time has come for those of you who will to enter the service of the Horde under Warchief Thrall. Form a line!"

Wordlessly, the young trolls formed a single-file line facing the cluster of masters. The shaman nodded slowly. "Those who will serve, take one step forward!"

Bodily, the line took a pace forward. Rholdakh was acutely aware of Maliata on his left, staring straight ahead with a determined expression.

The shaman spoke again. "Should you take this service, you will become the hands of Thrall, his eyes in far places, his shield to defend him, his sword to attack his enemies. You will be little better than a slave to him, as he was to the humans- but that little makes the difference, for you will be his brothers and sisters, children though not of his blood. You will be his Horde, at his beck and call. Know that you will be asked to do great and terrible things. You will be expected to do them, nevertheless. You may be asked to do things you feel beyond you. You will do them, nevertheless. You will look after the Horde; the Horde will in turn look after you. Success is rewarded, desperation aided, incompetence punished, treachery destroyed, and always, honor is upheld."

The shaman looked over the line carefully. "You are eager now, but keep truly in your mind the fact that this fire may fade, may grow cold. The Horde is a flame- let those who would burn take one step forward."

Rholdakh thought the words over in his mind. There truly was no going back. He would no longer be some simple troll... but was that what he wanted? The life of some simple fisherman? He would be a mage or a great warrior, doing heroic deeds the like of which had never been seen... he would be someone _important_. He would be a part of this great army, this Horde.

All these thoughts flashed through Rholdakh's mind, and he took a slow, careful step forward. He was aware that Maliata had stepped ahead of him almost before the shaman had finished speaking, and he had to work at it to repress his grin. At the least, he would have a friend. As far as he could tell, about half of the trolls stepped forward- perhaps fifteen or less from the whole village.

The shaman nodded. "So be it. The rest of you may stand back. You who would be in the Horde, think carefully on what your role is to be, and know that whatever you become you are now under the command of Stone Guard Melne Highcloud. You will form a half-circle around me, thirty feet across."

The chosen recruits immediately complied, forming an open semi-circle facing Melne at its center. The shaman nodded slowly. "Good. Discipline. I commend your village elders. Now... watch and learn." He stepped back, out of the center of the circle, and the masters formed the other half of the circle to close the ring. Rholdakh was very aware of one of the magi standing just to his right, another of the undead Forsaken, the man's eyes glowing with yellow light.

The three warriors stepped forward into the circle, their wolves standing in their places to keep the ring closed. The larger of the two orcs raised his voice, shouting harshly. "A warrior's concern is with strength! Your weapons? Your allies? All can fail you! When in a fight, you need to be able to defend yourself with any means at your disposal!"

The smaller orc drew a short sword as the Tauren unslung a huge mace from his back. The larger orc continued to shout. "In combat, you can trust only your strength to save you when cunning fails, when fate conspires against you, when magic proves unreliable!" The tauren and the other orc both charged him. There was a brief blur of complicated movement and then the smaller orc was on the ground on his back halfway across the circle and the larger orc was straining against the Tauren with an axe he'd unslung from his back with impossible speed.

"Power is your only dependable ally! Power will allow you to survive, to defend others, to defeat your foes!" He dropped suddenly, kicking out, and the Tauren warrior dropped like a rock. Before he could rise, the orc's axe was at his throat. The orc gave a hoarse chuckle. "Guile, of course, hurts nothing."

The recruits spontaneously applauded as the warrior commander helped his companions up. "So tell me, then, is there any who thinks they can master steel and bone, guile and power, and become a warrior? Step forward, you who will!"

Five trolls stepped forward. Rholdakh thought for a moment. Would this be how he would serve the Horde? He tried to think. Was this his role? Beside him he saw Maliata take a half-step and then check herself. No, she would not be a warrior... and neither would he. The warriors, new recruits and masters both, left the circle and the mage on Rholdakh's right stepped into the circle. His voice sounded oddly out of place in the sunlight.

"Power indeed the warriors promise, and power they can deliver... but it is a sad power compared to what some of us can wield. All have it within them to seek this power, bind it to their wills. This power is called magic, and with it we can create." The air shimmered and a flask of water dropped into his left hand.

"This power is called magic, and with it we can alter." The mage faded from view entirely, becoming totally invisible. From the space where he was standing, Rholdakh heard a voice. "This power is called magic... and with it we can destroy."

The flask of water flew into the air as the mage shimmered back into view. There was a sharp crack and a flash of fire from the mage's hands, and a small cloud of steam formed above the circle. Then there was a harsh whistle as a wave of intense cold turned steam to rain, then to hail, then to droplets of ice that spattered the sunlit dust inside the circle. The mage clapped his hands sharply and all the ice shimmered and disappeared in a flare of purple light.

"If there are those among you who would master this power, step forward now."

Several trolls stepped forward. Rholdakh thought about it long and hard, nearly stepped forward but, in the end, subsided. To his left, Maliata simply stood and waited. The mages and their new apprentices left the circle and one of the hunters entered it. When he spoke, his voice was much lower than either mage or warrior, so Rholdakh had to strain to hear.

"My allies have much to say about power. I do not know of such things, but I do know that the greatest imperative is to survive. That, I can teach you." The orc waved a hand at all around him. "I have no magic to show, no throws to demonstrate... I have slept on the land, heard its heartbeat, tracked its creatures. I can follow a snake through a swamp, a squirrel through the trees, a tiger through the jungle. I can set traps, I can put an arrow through an apple at eighty yards and, if it comes down to it, I can hold my own hand-to-hand with any pinkskin. I will teach those who are willing."

Two more trolls stepped forward. Neither Rholdakh nor Maliata stirred from their places. The hunters, old and new, left the circle. Now there were only five troll hopefuls and three masters yet to speak. Melne stepped forward.

"Hunter Korrak speaks of the earth. Where he tracks its creatures, I speak to them. Magus Hendrick speaks of fire, water, and creation. I can do all. Warrior Varr speaks of power." He stomped his foot once and the entire village shook, threw back his head and shouted so it echoed off the cliffs and the waves roiled. "I... have power. The earth, the air, the fire, the water and the wilds, they lend it to me if they will, and I in turn use it as I can. I will not ask a recruit to step forward."

Melne moved from one recruit to the next in turn, scrutinizing them. Rholdakh almost bit his lip with nervousness. This was it, this was worth not being a mage for. This could be it. He would have this power, to shake buildings and make the waves storm. Melne looked at him carefully, looked into his eyes, and then moved on to Maliata, making a full rotation of the circle. He stepped back. "You there. The seas know you already. Come." He pointed.

Not at Rholdakh.

The young troll fought back his disappointment, a mixture of anger, frustration, and agony roiling in his mind. Did they go around again and let you choose? Could he be a mage after all? He almost opened his mouth, but a knowing look from Melne and a tiny, tiny shake of the Tauren's head kept him silent.

The rogue trainer stepped forward next. "I am no magician. Those who would be my apprentices- you have ten minutes to find me." He threw something onto the ground and there was a flash. By the time Rholdakh's vision had cleared, the rogue had vanished. Maliata tore out of the circle at a dead sprint, one of the other trolls following her.

Rholdakh and the lone remaining recruit looked at one another across the circle. The other recruit looked confident, even pleased, a state of events that did not match Rholdakh's own feelings.

The undead woman from the pier stepped into the circle, her troll companion following. "In times of strife, there will always be those who are in need of aid. Whether mending the body or soothing the mind, we priests will be here. We offer aid and solace to our allies." Her hand glittered with golden light. A wave of her hand at the warrior masters, and the minor scrapes they'd incurred vanished with no trace, leaving perfectly healed skin behind.

The troll priest spoke up. "With all light, there be shadow; we can soothe pain or inflict it, calm the mind or destroy it." He narrowed his eyes and Rholdakh felt a scream, a horrible scream, the scream of children in agony, of love destroyed- he felt himself sweat, felt all his muscles clench fighting the sheer _panic_ this instilled, saw one or two of the recruits actually break ranks and flee for a few steps-

The undead priestess waved a hand and the terror faded as swiftly as it had come. "If you have the talent, we will train you. J'kala?"  
The troll in the dark robes looked at Rholdakh intently. He felt something in his mind briefly, then the sensation faded. The troll called J'kala nodded. "He has the shadow, mon. He must have the light."

The undead priestess nodded. Rholdakh considered. Was this to be his task? Was he to be some priest, some defender? It wouldn't be so bad... not as exciting as a magus, perhaps, but J'kala had helped him out of the water, had given him that enchanted ribbon... perhaps J'kala would be his teacher? That would be-

The priestess gestured to him. "I am Guineve Weaver of Hillsbrad, and you will be my apprentice. What is your name?"  
Or perhaps J'kala wouldn't be his teacher. Rholdakh thought of asking if he could be a mage instead one last time, then shrugged mentally. "I be Rholdakh."  
Guineve looked him over critically. "If you have any personal effects, they will be here later. Come."  
Rholdakh's frustration finally found a vent in a quiet statement. "I haven't said my goodbyes."  
Guineve did not so much as look back. "Sometimes we don't get to say goodbyes. We're travelling by wyvern. Get on."

They left the village on gryphon-back, travelling to the west at a great speed.


	4. Chapter Three: It's Called A What?

_Author's Note & Standard Disclaimer: Warcraft and related intellectual property are, quite naturally, owned by Blizzard Entertainment. I am not them._

_ Thanks for all the reviews so far and I'm really sorry it took so long to get this out. Midterms are not pleasing to me. For those of you who've been asking questions, you'll have to wait and see. I will mention that I play (Troll priest Rholdakh) on the Arathor (US) server._

* * *

It was hard to say what he'd expected. Rholdakh knew that to expect _any_ member of the Horde to live in luxury was folly of the highest order, so he hadn't been expecting luxury. He knew the undead were former humans, and having never been in a human home might have put him at a disadvantage... but he hadn't been expecting this.

They'd flown away from Shadowprey on wyvern-back. That had been a new experience for Rhol, and he had to wonder, in retrospect, if the great winged beast was used to its riders cursing steadily before losing the contents of their stomachs over the scenery whirling past below. Guineve, looking back, had seen the distinctly green tinge of Rholdakh's face against the troll's blue skin, and had wheeled her wyvern down and to the left. Rhol's own mount had followed it and, much to his relief, they found themselves on the ground amid dusty red rocks and tauren-painted tents.

The troll had briefly considered kissing the giant Tauren woman running the inn at Stonetalon as he took slow sips of spring water. His suggestion that he could stand the nausea long enough to move on was met by cold scorn from his teacher, who seemed to be waiting for something.

Then there'd been the appearance- a swoosh and a bang as a blue flash of light resolved itself into a Forsaken in flowing red and white robes. Guineve had curtseyed to this new arrival and Rholdakh, taking his cue from her, had bowed. Then this new Forsaken had made a pass or two in the air and Rholdakh had realized he was a mage, opening a mystical passage from this inn to... wherever it was they were going.

Rholdakh had caught a glimpse of eerie green light through the portal before Guineve had nearly shoved him through.

The sensation had been extremely unpleasant- like being turned inside out through your eye sockets- and then he'd found himself, still dazed and dizzy, surrounded by eerie laughter and grotesque stone carvings...

...then the world had spun around him in a crazed blur, and he'd felt an impact just above his ear...

And now he was here. And he hadn't been expecting this. He was lying on his back on something soft and faintly yielding, almost like his hammock back home but without the reassuring sway and give of the net.

He sat up slowly and carefully and took stock. He didn't seem too terribly injured. There was no wound on his head where he remembered the impact. Now that he knew how he was, he looked around. He was sitting on something soft, which was itself resting on a sort of four-legged table with taut rope where the boards should be. It was low enough to the ground that he could sit on it and have his feet easily touch the ground.

"It's called a bed."

He looked around. Guineve was watching him carefully, as though afraid he might bite. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply you were ignorant. I thought you might be confused."

Rhol shook his head. "No, mon, I never saw one before..." It wasn't until _after_ the words were out of his mouth that he realized just _how_ stupid that made him sound.

His new teacher raised an eyebrow. "You've never seen a bed? What, you slept in the dirt?"

Rholdakh let his lip peel back in a defensive scowl. "We had hammocks. We be not some stupid brutes, mon."

Guineve raised her other eyebrow. "Then don't talk like one. I am Mistress Weaver, not 'mon'."

The troll made a visible effort to speak in what he clearly believed to be a formal manner, placing a careful snapping emphasis on the ends of his words. "As you be wishing, Mistress Weaver."

The Forsaken woman regarded him carefully. "You're not joking, are you...? I have so much work to do."

Rholdakh glared at her.

Things did not get better that day. Rholdakh's appointment to be Guineve's student had apparently caught _both _of them by surprise. Guineve spent the next hour presenting Rholdakh with things she saw as being clearly part of the basics, and Rholdakh spent the time explaining, with increasing frustration, that he had not intended to be a priest and needed the actual _basics_.

It was at about four in the afternoon that things came to a head.

Specifically, Guineve presented Rholdakh with a scroll filled from left to right with cantrips and runes. "You'll need to learn these, then. That's about as basic as I can make things for you, troll."

The slight derogatory sneer in her voice did not go un-noticed by Rholdakh as he stared at the symbols on the scroll. "Uh... Mo...Mistress Weaver?"

Guineve looked up from her own spellbook. "Yes?"

"I never done this before, m-ma'am." Rholdakh was clearly still trying to speak formally.

She looked at him incredulously. "What, you never learned the basic cantrips of the Light and the Shadow?"

Rhol gazed at her levelly. "Not what I be meanting. I never did magic before, and this scroll is not be helping."

She'd giggled, and matters had come to a head- specifically, Guineve's head- Rhol had thrown the scroll at it and stomped out of the building.

Now it was getting dark, and while he knew exactly where he was, he was having some trouble remembering where he'd left Guineve's house. What he did know was largely rumor... the Forsaken had taken over this entire area a year ago, after the Third War. He'd been too young to fight, then. He'd heard stories of how swarms of the risen dead had simply and with little preamble smashed the human nation under the command of their dark prince Arthas Menethil.

And now it was getting dark. And here he was. In the middle of nowhere.

A hand clamped over his mouth and he fought back a howl. Guineve's voice hissed in his ear. "If you shriek, we're both dead." He considered pointing out that she'd already reached that point. He also considered biting off a finger or two. In the end, common sense won out and he went quietly with her back to her home.

Dark eyes glittered as they watched the two go. Dark fur rippled as a stealthy form followed the pair back.


End file.
